Hand in Paw

Wearing my skeleton on the outside of my skin, I bury my eyes into the golden gloss of his fur. Twin trails slip down, drip, drip, dripping until they pour onto the carpet. My forehead wobbles across the arcs of his insulated body, incubated by steady breaths. Attuned but unafraid, his chocolate orbs glance my way. A resonant yet simple sorrow conflicts his canine form. Blending stray salty tears with the straw tinge on his back, I whisper, tremulously. “Am I going to die?” My emptyness plummets farther as though every minuscule detail of the bedroom is divining my demise. He blinks, velveted ears flicking, but says nothing.

The mechanic cadence of synthetic calories traveling through a tiny black hole in my biceps booms like gunshots against my senses. Arrow-like tips of my bones grind against me. Collapsing beside him, I enclose his paw in my hand and he listens as I fold in on myself. 


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